Fans
by LobsterSalad
Summary: Obviously Hungary knows about the fandom culture. But Romano doesn't, and doesn't intend to learn either. And the lady seriously needs to stock up more wine. Crack.


**AN: revamped**

In many of the universes, there is a common scenario:

Spain is the rich and awesome stud.

Romano is the talented poor guy with low self esteem.

They get together, Romano makes friends with Spain's rich and powerful friends, learning about his inner abilities and true powers and becoming a super intelligent physicist.

Character evolvement, etc. etc., morphing, ascending levels, surprising innate talent, possessiveness, sex.

Oh Roma you feel so good.

Spain you stud you.

Now let's make music.

"Seriously this is fucking crap."

"No shoosh listen to me explain this Roma."

* * *

It was a night out for Hungary and Romano. They sat, or laid, on Hungary's sofa out on her balcony, pouring over details of her various fanfictions and doujins. Rather, Hungary poured over the details while Romano made comments that were politer than usual while sipping wine and handing her a bottle of beer when she gestured for one. There was a full moon.

"You don't understand," said Hungary. "The whole point of making Romano a physicist in here is because we want to see him wearing sexy glasses and a white coat."

"Uh huh," Romano raised an eyebrow. "If you want to see me in that kind of outfit I'd be happy to wear it. Provided that a lady is asking."

Hungary shook her head.

"The point is that you're _actually_ a physicist. Or a princess, lost heir, whatever."

He pouted. "I don't get it."

"It's the _what if_ that gets people excited," she explained. "_What if_ Austria was a girl and fell in love with me at first sight. _What if_ zombies were real and they took over the Earth. _What if_ Spain loves Italy more than you and you decide to commit suicide."

"Fucking surprise," Romano grumbled, "I'm always the depressed one. Hey look," he pointed at himself, "It's Mr. Suicide. I cut myself!"

Hungary swooned at the implications. Then stopped herself. Before she could speak, Romano handed her another bottle and she swiped it from his hands.

"It's possibilities, Romano. People like exploring possibilities, and you're a medium."

By this time Romano had already downed his third full glass, a bit more alcohol than he could handle.

"I'm a medium," he slurped. "I c'n talk to ghosts and shit."

"What I'm saying here," she said, also getting slightly tipsier than was advisable, "is that JUST _dressing up_ in a fic isn't really useful because the reader can't see you. Artists get more flexibility there."

"I'm an artist too."

"But if you're in an actual role to fit the outfit," She continued, "suddenly you're looking sexy and even professional without the author's attempt at trying too hard." She pointed at her head, "It's all in the mind. The reader projects what they feel is most attractive to the role that's set."

"I'm always sexy." Romano moped, turning the empty wine bottle upside down. "I'm a fucking beast. So sexy and-and-and-we're out of wine."

"What I'm _really_ trying to say here," said Hungary, ignoring Romano dropping the empty bottle into her lap and popping open a new one, "is that, well, let me give you an example:

'Romano is currently dressing up as a maid in order to tempt Spain.'"

"We're not together. We're not even friends," Romano upended another large mouthful of apple wine into his mouth. "No one wants to be friends with me."

"'He's wearing a short teasing white skirt with a low cut blouse that's supposed to show bosom but men don't have bosom so too bad for Spain.'"

"Isn't that just shitty description?" He leaned back into his seat, taking a fresh drag of the Hungarian night air. Above, the sky twinkled with stars.

"Exactly!," Hungary replied. "But wouldn't things just be easier if it went like,

'Dr. Antonio met his nurse Romano who was dressed in a drop dead sexy nurse outfit.'"

"I still dun' get it. An' fuck I think I just dropped the bottle into your back yard."

The woman ignored the crash and focused on the sky. Look at the two of them. Drunk in a veranda. On such a good night.

"But sonetimes you're made out to be such a good person. All nice on 't inside, cute on the outside. No flaws 'cept for cursing an general studipity- stupitidy- stupi- whatever."

"I dun' even know wha' you're talking 'bout," mumbled Romano, getting increasingly incoherent. "Firs' you say universes, then sometin' 'bout fiction an' stuff. An' we need more wine."

"It's nice, though," said Hungary.

"You're ignoring me 'gain. Do you think your plants are going to die because-" he glanced down, "alcohol."

"That s'me people depict you as almost perfect." She said, recalling Romano's actual acts and personality over the years.

"I'm puurrrfect. Most fucking perfect being ever. Smart people. Who are they. We need more wine."

"Because you deserve some sort of reward, even if you don't even know about it." She sighed. "I think it's nice."

Romano snorted.

"Imma go and raid your wine cellar."

xxx

"I don't have one."

"Fuck!"


End file.
